It must be a traumatic experience to be blasted from
a £l5–per–week factory job into the orbit of £100–plus stardom and
then splash down again into the factory after only a few months. Similarly,
it must also be a terrific strain on the human ego to discover that,
not only has one been blasted into a stardom orbit, but that one is
going to remain there for some years.

To find oneself in the position to retire young and
also with time and loot to go up and own the whole gamut of diabolical
kicks must also have its drawbacks. Like the Devil, the entertainment
biz also claims forfeits. To obtain a fortune ones must take a chunk
of fame. Having got this little lot you find that somewhere along
the line you have forfeited your freedom. Going down the pub, getting
on a bus, going shopping, seeing a movie and eating out, all become
hazardous sorties. True, you can afford your bodyguards to ward off
besiegers of your luxury apartment: you can also afford all the drink
you require, to ride about in a chauffeur–driven Rolls, to have wide–screen
movies, and the best food in the world. Is this a fair exchange? I
think not.

The realisation that one has gained fame and fortune
only to lose freedom does peculiar things to a guy and helps to explain
some of the strange things that our 20th century stars
get up to. They lose touch with the real world outside. They only
see and talk to their buddies and/or sycophants and read Press reports.
Soon reality and fiction become confused and they begin to believe
their own publicity. “Without a doubt,” they tell one another, “we
have a severe attack of the dreaded genius! Even when we defecate
it is a work of art! Let’s make a movie! Let’s write a book! Let’s
write poetry! Let’s paint a picture!” In fact, let’s do anything rather
than attempt to master the thing we are making our money out of—music.

Just how much of this extraneous rubbish would we
be subjected to if these unfortunates were not in the enviable position
of being able to finance their own whims and fancies? Precious little
is my guess. Don’t be too hard on them, though: remember that they
are deprived of their freedom. So the next time you come face to face
with one of these self–indulgencies and the headlines waver between
“Outrage!” and “Genius!“, just try to imagine yourself in their position.
Think of it. No pub! Gawd–enough to make a fella make a horror film!

*

There is a school of playwrights that revels in writing
plays that have no definite ending. The idea, I am told is to demand
audience participation and give enough of the story and characterisation
to allow audience imagination to furnish a suitable ending.

This presupposes that the audience has an imagination.
All too frequently one hears irate viewers and theatre–goers saving
that the play was silly, as it didn’t end. The fiend in me makes me
want to try this with music. How marvellous to write a real swinging
build–up arrangement and leave the score unfinished about 15 bars
from the end. A bloody great dominant 7th chord, then . . .nothing!